In The Tall Grass
by riveroad
Summary: "He just wants to talk to her. Misses talking to her. Doesn't want to miss talking to her."


He just wants to talk to her. Misses talking to her. Doesn't want to miss talking to her. He doesn't know, but then he hears the words coming out of his mouth, asking for his keys (his _keys_, honest to god, for half a second, it actually crosses his mind that this is a good thing to make conversation about because it's normal, it has a PURPOSE, it's not just like 'oh hey McNally, I'm having problems sleeping and I miss my friend and MY LIFE' because really, what's she going to do with that? What would anyone?) but when she gets that look on her face, he wants to cringe.

The worst part?

She doesn't say no. She doesn't cry or beg or tell him to stay.

It's not like he expected her to. But does he really need those keys? Another thing he doesn't know. Thinks he wants a start without her in it and in the same breath, misses her so hard he doesn't know how he's going to choke down his coffee. And he's tired, he's so TIRED, feels like he's forgotten what it's like to wake up well rested, to sleep through the whole night, to not be carrying around this weight on his chest.

He's trying desperately to feel like he used to, before he got waterboarded in an attempt to keep his mouth shut, when he could you know, not know how McNally felt about him but just know that it wasn't enough because she was marrying someone else, before Jerry-

In any case. he spends the whole shift trying to prove that he's still a good cop because at least he'll be able to have that, at least he'll be able to say, "Well, I may have fucked up everything else but I can still do my job". He doesn't know if he always did his job this way. Did he? Can't remember, thinks he should have because come on, it's his job. He must have done it this way. Must have. Before Jerry-

The Diaz he remembers wouldn't have dared called him out on it, wouldn't have dared to stand his ground like that (for half a second, Sam thinks about slamming Diaz into the lockers, the same way he slammed those kids into the brick today. Satisfaction guaranteed). Deal with it? Sam doesn't have anything to deal with. People should be doing their jobs, not cutting other people breaks.

But he thinks about it, later, when he's at the Penny. Thinks about everything and finally admits that maybe - maybe - he hasn't been dealing with this. Hasn't dealt with the fact that he feels guilty and not like himself, hasn't dealt with the fact that Jerry-

Jerry died.

Jerry died and Sam could have saved him. Should have saved him. Should have been there.

Jerry died and Sam is so _ANGRY_, he's so angry at McNally for being so sure and at himself for thinking she was right. Most of all? Most of all, he's angry at Jerry for being there at all, for not being able to save himself, for dying.

It should have been him. He's the one who rushes in without always using his head, the one who is still in uniform by his own choice, not Jerry in his monogrammed shirts and his stupid ties, it should have been him, the one it would have made sense to lose.

In what world would he want Callaghan's advice? But then he starts talking about McNally and losing her (and seriously, he didn't _lose_ her. He's the one who walked away. It's not the same thing. Hasn't Sam lost enough? His whole life from the time he was a kid has been one big lesson on loss, you'd think he'd know the difference by now) and Sam just wants him to leave.

He doesn't drink the shot Callaghan pushes towards him, doesn't care how petulant or childish it is but when he gets in his truck and looks down at the keys in his hand, he thinks about the ones in his locker, about Andy and Jerry and stupid Callaghan.

He drives past her place, same as he does every night, thinks this is probably how stalking starts off and he sees lights on in her window. He almost gets out of the car. This part's familiar too. So is that deep breath he takes before he gets to the end of the street and starts in the direction of his house. He sits in his driveway for half an hour, gears himself up to go into his empty house. He doesn't turn the lights on, doesn't do any of the stuff he was doing five months ago (laundry, cooking, Andy-), drags himself over to the couch and falls onto it fully dressed.

He's resigned himself to the fact that he'll be awake in a couple hours anyway and he can always change his clothes then.

A full month passes. A month. A month of trying desperately to get more sleep and eat more food and just do his job quickly so he can go home.

Oliver asks him how he's doing, doesn't really look him in the eyes and when Sam says, "Fine", just shakes his head and sighs.

So it may be possible that Ollie knows he's not sleeping and he's not over McNally and that sometimes, it really just feels like he's bumbling around with his eyes closed, running at top speed with his shoelaces tied together.

He follows his nightly ritual of a drink at the Penny (always scotch, always what Jerry would have had, and he doesn't even want to touch what that means): wait until Andy heads home, follow her at a safe distance, see the light on in her window, force himself to go home, pass out on the couch.

It's like some kind of sick clockwork thing, two hours later, he jerks awake, can't remember what he was dreaming about, his head foggy and dim, the light from the refrigerator too bright. He's out of cream, out of cereal, out of milk - he's out of a lot of stuff, actually, almost out of coffee too and he lets out a heavy sigh when he realizes he should have stopped off for groceries on the way home.

He's legitimately down to the last grinds, tub of coffee turned upside down, spoon banging ineffectively against the side and he falls into a chair while he waits for it to brew.

Sam's not exactly a stranger to break ups, he's had girlfriends before, has even cared very deeply about a couple of them. It's supposed to get better, this break up process, supposed to eventually let him start feeling normal. Less shitty.

But there's a pounding between his eyes and god, GOD, it's not getting better. Nothing is getting better. Against his better judgement, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and almost calls her.

It's not a proud thing to have to admit but it's not the first time he's almost called her. Not the first time he's almost sent her a text. There's a snarky voice in his head that tells him she hasn't called him, hasn't texted him, hasn't tried to talk to him, other than that utter fiasco where he left her standing in the rain (will only speak to him on the radio during shift, with everyone else listening and completely professional, all 'This is Officer McNally') and he may have started stalking her friends' Facebook walls ((Nash and Epstein were the first, Diaz and Peck and even Collins now), just to see if she's written anything on them. If he felt like maybe he was starting to become a stalker a month ago, well he sure feels like a full-blown one now.

He doesn't even LIKE Facebook.

He misses her. Misses her in a way he wouldn't have understood before, in a way that doesn't make sense. It's not like she (died) disappeared, he still sees her at work, still has her walk right past him in Parade. But he misses her, he misses them together.

Misses who he was when he was with her.

He misses the shit out of Jerry.

Jerry, who would have told him, "Just tell McNally you're emotionally-retarded and let's all move on."

He wants it back. Wants his LIFE back.

When it finally brews, his coffee tastes burnt.

Late night at The Penny, just holding the glass and not drinking from it and he lets out a weary sigh when Callaghan slides into the chair beside him.

"Yeah. Empty chair? Not an invitation."

Callaghan snorts. "I think all your admirers got the memo."

Sam feels his mouth twitch at that. Before everything, he'd actually found Callaghan amusing.

"How are you doing, Sammy?"

It's on the tip of his tongue to say that he's fine, to insist everything's ok. It's one thing to protect Oliver. "Could be better."

It's quiet for a bit, just the sounds of other people's conversations. Sam musingly thinks he could actually learn to like Callaghan, finishes his drink, toys with the glass just to have somewhere to look.

"You didn't take my advice."

Or maybe not. "Oh for the love of-" He feels slightly staggered at the expression that comes out of his mouth, something his mother used to say when he'd tracked mud through the kitchen or left his hockey equipment in the living room.

"Exactly."

That throws him off even more. He'd been gearing up to maybe hit the guy (that – THAT – would have been satisfying).

Callaghan shakes his head at him. "You know, if you didn't love her, it wouldn't be getting worse."

For the life of him, Sam can't find anything to say, thinks his mouth might be hanging open.

"Okay then." Sam feels a hand on his shoulder and okay, seriously, one day, he's going to deck Callaghan, just walk right up to him and break his nose.

He stops at Rabba on the way home. It's overpriced to shit but it's open and he needs coffee and he needs milk and while he's here he might as well get some bread.

He spends two and a half hours wandering up and down the aisles.

But he thinks about it later, when he's lying on the couch not sleeping, thinks about love and what it means to him, to other people, thinks it doesn't keep people together, thinks it can even break them apart, thinks people do the stupidest shit for this emotion that you can't even quantify, thinks it makes people stay when they should leave and screws up families and kids and thinks people drop it all over the place like it doesn't even MEAN anything and he-

Well he wouldn't do that.

Maybe Andy wouldn't either.

He rolls over, almost calls McNally, feels like he's lost a few of his brain cells when he actually types the number in just to look at it.

He has absolutely no clue what he's doing anymore, nostalgic for a life he had before, chest physically tight, wondering how in the hell he could have given her up, how he could have lost her the way he did.

When he thinks of that night, when he thinks of her telling him to leave and him actually getting in his truck, it feels like something fucking STUPID he witnessed someone else do. And now, he can't remember if he really wanted to leave or if he thought it was something he should do because Jerry was gone.

He has no answers, no idea what he's supposed to do next, no clue how to make things better. But he's starting to think that maybe what he really just needs is Andy. That maybe, she's the thing he needs to sleep through the night, to get through the loss of a friend, to find that new way to live.

When his alarm goes off, he can see the sun rising through his kitchen window.


End file.
